It's The Thought That Counts
by velja
Summary: Others said they need it. So they do it. It involves pushing and sweating and different angles and 'Did I hurt you' and Mrs. Hudson ready to lend a hand and it ends in being a terrible idea and John's fault and eventually John realizes what's this about.


**It's The Thought That Counts**

_Halfway in writing this I realized that I'd read something similar a while back. I still needed to finish and post this to get it out of my system. So I apologize if I happened to copy or lean on someone's idea. It wasn't intentional._

_And somehow the ending turned out far more sentimental than I'd intended. Sorry for that as well._

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><p>"Take a firm hold, John."<p>

"I am."

Sherlock sends a look over his shoulder that's fifty percent annoyance and fifty percent pity, as if he wants to say _'Well, if that's the best you can do, then God help us, we're not gonna get this done tonight.'_ John grits his teeth and puts more force into his grip.

"Like this?"

"Ah, yes, that's better." Sherlock's voice is strained. "Now, move!"

"Sherlock…"

"Move, John!"

John does, he puts everything he's got into it, and for a few blessed seconds he hears nothing but the squeaking noises the sofa is making and their combined ragged panting. John's determined to get this over with as quickly as possible and he renews his efforts, despite the ache he can feel starting in his shoulders. He risks a quick glance upwards and realizes immediately that they've reached the critical point. John takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Then he pushes with all his might.

"Come on, John," Sherlock coaxes from above. "What are you waiting for?"

"Hang on, I'm… I'm trying!" He's sure the cords on his neck stand out as if bursting any second.

"Try harder!" Sherlock is starting to sound impatient. "Come on, push!"

John does, he really does. But… it's not enough. He opens his eyes again, resigned.

"Hold on a sec. This isn't working."

"Obviously," comes Sherlock's muffled reply. He sounds disappointed, and bored.

John tries to come up with a solution. He shifts his feet a little. "Maybe if I changed the angle…"

"No, ow!" Sherlock cries out in panic. "Don't do that!"

"Oh God," John shuffles back immediately. "Did I hurt you?"

"Brilliantly deduced, John!"

John winces in guilt. "Sorry!" He shifts backwards some more to get the weight off of Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock shouts again, even more panicked now. "Don't do that! Don't let go!"

"I'm not!"

"Yes, you were," Sherlock insists. "Don't. Don't breathe, don't move, don't do anything. I need to think."

"Of course you do," John grumbles but shuts up when he feels Sherlock's glare hit him. Not that they can actually see each other in the position they're in. Direct eye contact is rather impossible right now… but John simply knows.

"Oh, okay," Sherlock exclaims after a few silent seconds. "I need to turn around."

"What? No, you don't!" Now it's John's turn to panic. "Sherlock, you can't!"

Sherlock doesn't reply but carefully and very slowly starts to turn around.

"Sherlock, stop it! You're making it worse!"

"How can it get worse, John?"

Sherlock hasn't finished speaking when there is suddenly a whooshing sound, followed closely by a dull thud. Then there's silence.

John looks down into his now empty hands. "That's how!"

He glares up at Sherlock's face, now that he can actually see it, and is content when he finds actual guilt in those piercing eyes. Only for a second, mind you, but it's there.

"Do you need help?" Mrs. Hudson's chipper voice suddenly floats up to them from the bottom of the stairs. "I could lend a hand…"

"No!" Both cry out in unison, horrified at the thought of Mrs. Hudson seeing them like this.

"We're fine, Mrs. Hudson," John shouts back. Only when he hears her close the door of her apartment he lets out a relieved sigh and slides to the ground.

"This was a bad idea."

Suddenly Sherlock's beside him, crouching down. "Yes, it was, obviously."

They look at each other. Sherlock's usually pale face is flushed and John can only assume that he looks the same. He certainly feels sweaty and awkward.

"This was a terrible idea," he states again.

"It was yours," Sherlock huffs.

"Now, hang on. It wasn't…"

"I didn't need this," Sherlock continues. "I was perfectly content with the way things were. But you had to…"

"It wasn't me, Sherlock!" John glares at the man by his side. He's met with a piercing stare and relents: "Oh, well… it wasn't **just** me. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and even Mycroft, they all said we'd need…"

"Right, and if Mycroft says it then it must be done."

"Okay, no but…" John lets out a frustrated sigh. Then, cautiously, he adds: "They kind of have a point though. We really need…"

"Ha!" Sherlock exclaims triumphantly. "So it was your idea, partly. You weren't averse to this."

"Of course not."

"So it **is** your fault!" Sherlock deduces with a content nod.

John shakes his head, beyond frustrated now. Nevertheless he mumbles: "If you say so."

"No, you did, John. You just admitted…"

"Oh, for God's sake. Yes, Sherlock!" John snaps. "Okay? Yes, this fiasco is entirely my fault and you're completely innocent. I get it! No need to rub it in."

"Good."

"Fine."

They remain side by side for a few minutes, catching their breaths. Eventually John glances sideways.

"So, what do we do now?"

"Hhm?" Seems like Sherlock's thoughts have traveled elsewhere already.

"What now, Sherlock?"

"Oh, now we go back to…"

"We can't just go back…"

"Of course we can," Sherlock stands up and looks down to John. Then he marches off to the living room. John gets up as well, ready to follow him.

"Sherlock, wait!"

To his own surprise Sherlock actually obeys. He turns and looks at John expectantly.

"We can't just leave it like that!" John's eyes travel from Sherlock to the problem at hand and back. "In case you hadn't noticed, there's a big plush sofa currently blocking our stairway."

"So? Problem?"

"Yes," John has managed to squeeze past the monstrous piece of furniture that they'd failed to get upstairs. "We can't leave that thing here. We need it inside. Now, today. You burned the old one and you're the one who's always lounging on the sofa anyway, so…"

"So?" Sherlock's eyebrow rises.

"You'll have to come up with something. A plan."

"I already did."

"You did? What? How? When?"

"Three excellent questions, John," Sherlock grins and beckons John into the living room. "I'll let you in on the answers while we wait."

"Huh?" John plops down into his chair. "Wait? For what?"

"For the men I had Mycroft sent over here to move the furniture of course."

"You… you had Mycroft…" John can't continue, he's too stunned. "When?"

"This morning, after you'd texted me that the sofa would arrive today."

"Then why did we, what did we just… Why didn't you bloody say something?" John is shouting now. He knows he shouldn't, Mrs. Hudson will probably think they're having another one of their domestics, which, technically, they are, so… And anyway, right now John can't care less. He's too angry, and frustrated, and exhausted. And just a little bit glad that he doesn't have to move furniture anymore.

He glares straight on to Sherlock who's reclining in the opposite armchair.

Looking as smug, and unapologetic, as ever.

"So," John continues with badly repressed frustration. "Why did you let us waste an hour trying to haul that damn heavy thing upstairs?"

"It was an experiment," Sherlock shrugs.

"An experiment."

"Yes."

"On what?"

"On measuring the amount of force you're willing to use for something you don't really need."

"I didn't know that I wouldn't need to get it upstairs, did I? So how can you…"

"That's not what I meant."

"Huh? What did you…?"

"I didn't mean the need to get it upstairs. I meant the sofa per se. You said it yourself; you don't really use the sofa. You don't need a sofa. And you had no hand in destroying the old one. That was my doing alone. So."

"So?" If John didn't know any better he'd say that Sherlock looks a bit embarrassed all of a sudden.

"So I wanted to see exactly what lengths you'd go to for something you've no use for, obviously. Something that's entirely… for me."

"You wanted to… huh? What?" Frustration leaves John to make way for utter confusion. "See what I'd be willing to do for you? Is that it?"

"Exactly."

"Okay, fine. You know, it's kind of sad that after a year of chasing killers with you, being kidnapped, shot at, strapped to a bomb and what else, all for you, or because of you, after all that you still don't know what exactly I'd be willing to do for you." John can feel the frustration well up inside again.

Sherlock looks away for a second and a frown makes it between his eyes. "Well, that's John Watson the military man. I know that when we're on a case you'd do that and more. But…"

"But?"

"But what about the rest of you? I needed to know how far you'd go. John Watson, my… friend."

"Oh." John doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock call him his friend. Not like this. He exhales slowly. "So, buying groceries and making sure you get food and sleep isn't telling enough?"

"That's not… that's John Watson the doctor, looking after a patient."

John doesn't know what to say to that. Does Sherlock really think that? How can he be so brilliant and so dense at the same time? Or is it merely insecurity?

Is it possible that the great Sherlock Holmes is insecure?

John has trouble believing that but still he tries to reassure his friend the best he can. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Just so you know, this is neither the military man nor the doctor speaking now. This is John, your friend. I would… I'd carry a sofa for you." It's hard to keep a straight face saying this, but somehow John manages. Sherlock does as well.

"Well," Sherlock concedes, "you tried to, at least."

"It's the thought that counts."

"Obviously."

A grin tugs at the corner of John's mouth and he can see one form on Sherlock's face as well. John is about to get up to make tea when Sherlock's voice stops him.

"Oh, John?"

"Yes?"

"I'd carry one for you as well."

"Well, you tried to."

"It's the thought that counts."

Seconds later they both giggle like mad.

They are still giggling when four heavy men built like rugby players carry the sofa inside, grunting and sweating under lots and lots of swearing.

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><p><strong>The End<strong>


End file.
